


Blindside

by thisprettywren



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, M/M, Rugby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-04
Updated: 2011-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-16 02:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John loves rugby. Sherlock discovers he does, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blindside

Sherlock Holmes knew fuck-all about rugby.

He could think of two things he did know, instead, that were relevant at the moment. 

First, that John wasn’t answering his mobile. 

Second, that he’d never seen his flatmate like this before: bent forward, hands braced against his upper thighs, panting to catch his breath and _laughing_. His hair was mussed; there was mud covering his legs (bare to the knees; Sherlock hadn’t even know John still owned a pair of shorts, where had he been hiding those?) and streaked across his back and shoulder. He’d taken an elbow to the cheekbone and there was a raised lump there, darkening rapidly. By the next morning it would be a proper bruise, and John would smile disarmingly as he explained it away to his patients at the surgery.

It was the surprise of it, Sherlock thought. It wasn’t because of anything they’d done together. He _wanted_  it to be because of something they’d done together. He wanted— oh.

John didn’t stop laughing, or not entirely, when he saw Sherlock, but his eyes darkened a bit. Signalling that he needed a moment he jogged over to where Sherlock, feeling immensely out of place, waited, fingering his mobile awkwardly. “Something the matter?” he asked, still breathless, and Sherlock had to actually force himself to look away from the flush the exertion had brought to the other man’s skin.

“No,” he said curtly. “Just an experiment, but if you’re—“ Sherlock waved a hand that encompassed the whole scenario, spun on his heels and turned away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When John arrived back at 221b that evening it was to find Sherlock lying on the sofa, legs against the backrest and feet pointing toward the ceiling, plucking at his violin. He was still muddy and disheveled, and Sherlock could still smell the pub on him, could picture John laughing with his teammates over a pint. A good time had by all, then.

“Bit of a wasted cab fare,” John said by way of greeting. “You’re sure everything’s all right?”

“Fine,” Sherlock answered. “I needed some help transporting— well. You aren’t the only person I can ask, you know.”

“Yes I am,” John laughed, filling a glass with water from the tap and swallowing it down in three long gulps. The bruise on his cheek was already darkening. He put the glass back down on the counter with a thump and stared at Sherlock for a long moment. Sherlock pretended not to notice.

Finally, John shrugged. “Right, then. Shower for me, then a curry. Are you eating tonight?” 

Sherlock hadn’t planned on it, but he made a noise of assent anyway. John smiled and made his way upstairs. 

He was tired, Sherlock could hear it in the way his feet hit the steps; his muscles would be sore in the morning.

The thought seemed to have short-circuited his brain, because suddenly Sherlock was standing outside the bathroom door, on the other side of which could be heard the sounds of the shower running. Sherlock could remember neither the taps turning on nor himself moving.

His hand didn’t even seem connected to him as he watched it reach out, saw his long fingers curl around the doorknob, felt it push the door open. 

John was just stepping into the bath, and jerked his foot back, grabbing at his towel to cover himself, but not before Sherlock saw the beginnings of another bruise forming against his hip.

“What are you—“ John began, then stopped himself. Sherlock was standing frozen just inside the door, and John’s eyes had locked on his face. His tongue darted out and disappeared just as quickly, and Sherlock had seen him do it countless times before, but somehow it felt like a new discovery.

“You’re sure you’re okay? Has something happened?” 

He was asking, Sherlock realised, because he wanted to be absolutely sure. Didn’t want to get his hopes up. It gave Sherlock a tight feeling in his stomach. 

“I rather think,” Sherlock said, his voice sounding low even to his own ears, “that something _has_.” He took a step forward but paused as John’s face went through one of its remarkable transformations: just for a moment it crumpled into a frown, brows drawing together, until that expression was erased by the brightness of the smile that lit his face.

“Married to your work, wasn’t it?” he said, reaching out to grab the front of Sherlock’s shirt and pull him in, like he’d been expecting this, like he’d been _waiting_. It was familiar and unexpected all at once, both too sudden and a foregone conclusion.

John’s mouth, when Sherlock bent to press his own against it, was warm, tasting of beer and fresh air and his own grin. “Couldn’t get any work done today,” he murmured against it, feeling the corners of his own lips twitch, “not without—“

“Yeah,” John answered, laughing, “all my fault, I’m sure, now _shut up_ ,” and they were kissing again, John’s fingers working the buttons on his shirt while Sherlock undid his belt and stepped out of his trousers. Then John was pulling Sherlock into the shower, the drain swirling with mud and grass clippings.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As they towelled themselves off afterward, Sherlock reached out to touch John’s cheek (not even consciously registering that this was the sort of thing that they _did_  now, casual contact a barrier that could be crossed with abandon; it would hit him later, another surprise). 

“You’re going to have a nasty bruise there.”

“Most likely.” John smiled and prodded it gingerly. “You know, I missed it when I couldn’t play.” Sherlock frowned at him, not following. “Because of my leg.”

“I suppose not, no.”

“And you’re the one who sorted that. So, well, thank you.”

“Mm.” Sherlock hadn’t actually thought of that. An odd feeling, to recall John’s laughing, breathless face and realise that he _had_  been part of it, after all. “There are proper ways to thank a man, you know.”

“You’re joking. We _just_ —“

Sherlock laughed. “That too, but later. No. But tell me next time. I’ll come watch.”

John smirked at him. “I have a hard time picturing you as an adoring fan, cheering me on.”

“That,” Sherlock said, “is the result of a distressing lack of imagination. I suppose I’ll just have to show you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a fill over at sherlockbbc_fic by [mazarin221b](http://mazarin221b.livejournal.com/). Explanation of how this came about can be found [here](http://mazarin221b.livejournal.com/32200.html)


End file.
